I followed the pilgrims around to the sunny side of the island, and found a wooden staircase at a point where the wall was somewhat broken away.  Reaching the top of the first ascent, the sweet breath of a spring woodland breathed around me.  I looked under the broken roofage of the boughs upon a blossoming jungle of shrubs and plants which seemed to have been called into life by a more potent sun.  The lily of the valley, in thick beds, poured out the delicious sweetness of its little cups; spikes of a pale-green orchis emitted a rich cinnamon odor; anemones, geraniums, sigillarias, and a feathery flower, white, freckled with purple, grew in profusion.  The top of the island, five or six acres in extent, was a slanting plane, looking to the south, whence it received the direct rays of the sun.  It was an enchanting picture of woodland bloom, lighted with sprinkled sunshine, in the cold blue setting of the lake, which was visible on all sides, between the boles of the trees.  I hailed it as an idyl of the North,—­a poetic secret, which the Earth, even where she is most cruelly material and cold, still tenderly hides and cherishes.

A peasant, whose scarlet shirt flashed through the bushes like a sudden fire, seeing me looking at the flowers, gathered a handful of lilies, which he offered to me, saying, “Prekrasnie” (Beautiful).  Without waiting for thanks, he climbed a second flight of steps and suddenly disappeared from view.  I followed, and found myself in front of a narrow aperture in a rude wall, which had been built up under an overhanging mass of rocks.  A lamp was twinkling within, and presently several persons crawled out, crossing themselves and muttering prayers.

“What is this?” asked a person who had just arrived.

“The cave of Alexander Svirski,” was the answer.

Alexander of the Svir—­a river flowing from the Onega Lake into Ladoga—­was a hermit who lived for twenty years on the Holy Island, inhabiting the hole before us through the long, dark, terrible winters, in a solitude broken only when the monks of Valaam came over the ice to replenish his stock of provisions.  Verily, the hermits of the Thebaid were Sybarites, compared to this man!  There are still two or three hermits who have charge of outlying chapels on the islands, and live wholly secluded from their brethren.  They wear dresses covered with crosses and other symbols, and are considered as dead to the world.  The ceremony which consecrates them for this service is that for the burial of the dead.

I managed, with some difficulty, to creep into Alexander Svirski’s den.  I saw nothing, however, but the old, smoky, and sacred picture before which the lamp burned.  The rocky roof was so low that I could not stand upright, and all the walls I could find were the bodies of pilgrims who had squeezed in before me.  A confused whisper surrounded me in the darkness, and the air was intolerably close.  I therefore made my escape and mounted to the chapel, on the highest part of the island.  A little below it, an open pavilion, with seats, has been built over the sacred spring from which the hermit drank, and thither the pilgrims thronged.  The water was served in a large wooden bowl, and each one made the sign of the cross before drinking.  By waiting for my turn I ascertained that the spring was icy-cold, and very pure and sweet.